2
Dillon Farrow’s first day back in Miramar was spent mopping jail cells.
He had returned any number of times, mostly brief holiday stays with his grandparents. Since their passing two years back, though, not once. There was nothing to come back to, no reason to visit the town he had fought so hard to escape.
But there he was, using a mix of dishwasher soap and liquid deodorizer, trying to erase the stench of the police-strength industrial cleaner. Surrounded by families who were mostly grateful for a cell. Wondering if this day could possibly get any worse.
Which was the moment when none other than Olivia Greer came waltzing through the station’s front door.
Dillon’s knee-jerk response was to jam the mop back into the metal wheelie bucket and roll it down the central corridor. Fast as the little rattling beast would let him.
Hoping desperately that Olivia had not recognized him.
Wishing the jail had a rear fire escape. Unbarred window. Crevice he could crawl into and hide.
He entered the last and largest cell, the drunk tank. It was the only cell not occupied by a family, and for good reason. The windowless chamber defined vile. Cracked discolored tiles covered the floor and walls, rising to a ceiling that gave yellow a bad name. The smell was brutal.
Dillon did his best to lose himself in work. It had been his escape hatch for as long as he could remember. More than that. Dillon actually enjoyed working. Having a task and doing it well defined his best days, even as a child.
He mopped and rinsed and squeezed and mopped. In the process, the woman beyond the steel door receded as other memories rose up and took form.
The best one-word description of Dillon’s parents was,stoned.
Dillon’s early years had been defined by the stoner’s version of a dream world. His parents had seen themselves as sixties flower children born a generation too late. These would-be hipsters baked dope into their breakfast granola, grew marijuana in their veggie garden, and played early rock on scratched and worn-out vinyl.
They survived as a family mostly because of the little home supplied by Dillon’s grandparents. His grandfather was a bricklayer who spent his so-called free time tending a small vineyard. His grandmother worked as head cleaner at one of the beachfront motels. The week Dillon turned eleven, she arranged for him to become the cleaning crew’s unofficial helper. She and her husband were both overjoyed when their grandson showed the initiative they had wanted in their own son. Dillon was thrilled beyond words to land a paying job.
Three hours every day, he hauled supplies and soiled linens and freshly washed towels for the cleaning staff. The women flirted outrageously, urging him to grow up faster. Dillon earned fifty cents an hour. He saved every penny. At eleven years of age, he had already taken aim at the exit.
His reverie was broken when the steel door creaked open and Porter announced, “Look who the storm dragged in.”
Dillon took his time. Steeling himself the best he could. Ramming the mop home, leaning on it for support. Meeting her gaze because there was nowhere to hide.
Porter actually appeared to be enjoying himself, in a world-weary sort of way. “I believe you two know each other.”
